Ah, should I even be telling this… but I swear I heard it from someone, and it's been sitting with me too long.
You know Nampo-dong — there's this old theater there. I'll leave the name out, there are still people around who know the place. Not sure exactly how long it's been there, but they say decades, at least. There's this woman, an older friend of mine's unni, who used to work there part-time. One night over drinks she brought it up out of nowhere… and she's not the type to talk about stuff like this. Very matter-of-fact, that one. But that night, her voice was different.
After the late-night screenings, she said, you had to do the closing cleanup past midnight. Her section was Theater 3 — the smallest one, all the way in the back. Once the audience cleared out, half the lights already off, you'd go in alone, pick up cups and trash, wipe down the seats, and leave. Nothing to it, really. Just cleaning.
But one night, she said. She was working her way up from the front row when she heard something from the back. At first she thought it was the ventilation. Just a low humming. But as she moved further up the aisle, she realized it wasn't mechanical at all. Someone was crying. Sobbing — but held back, like they were trying to keep it in. Not wailing, not breaking down. That sound of someone pressing it all down, crying without making a sound. That's what she heard, alone in an empty theater.
She froze. Couldn't breathe. It seemed to be coming from somewhere in the middle of the back rows, but there were no lights back there — just solid dark. She turned on her phone's flashlight and aimed it over.
Nothing in the seats. No one there.
But the sound kept coming. From right there, that same spot.
She said her legs gave out under her. You know that feeling where you need to run but your feet won't move. She forced one step — and in that moment, something struck her shoulder. Hard. A hand, clearly. She could feel the fingers. From behind. She spun around and there was nothing, but she said… the air was different. Not cold — damp. Heavy. Even though it was summer, just that one spot. And there was a smell, she said. Like someone had been sitting there a long time. The smell of a person. Sweat, and something stale and close.
She ran out and quit the next day.
Later she heard — and this part isn't confirmed — that something had happened at that theater once, a long time ago. During a late-night screening. Nobody talks about the details. Everyone just goes quiet. But there's a rumor that it happened in Theater 3.
And there was one last thing she said. When she shone her phone on the seat and found nothing there — the back of the seat had an impression in it. Like someone had just been sitting there. The fabric was sunken in.
She still remembers the seat number, she said. But that part she wouldn't tell.
